Chilled
by cmar
Summary: Over twenty years ago, he was a dim face in a dark alley. Now he has appeared again, and Bruce Wayne has the chance to find justice for the murder of his parents. Oneshot, complete.


All characters belong to DC Comics/Time Warner. I am using them without permission, but I am not and don't expect to make money with them. 

Rated PG. Violence and mature concepts.

Based on 'The Origin of the Batman', Batman 47, 1948, with elements from 'The First Batman', Detective 235, 1956. I know Bruce/Batman doesn't know who killed his parents in current continuity, but he used to... (Part of 'Birds of a Feather' AU series.)

Kindly take a moment to review...

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**Chilled**

It always seemed so dark here outside the city, amid the rolling hills that surrounded Gotham. There were none of the familiar streetlights he was so used to, only the faint glimmer of stars overhead and the lonely brightness of his headlights sweeping out his path down the highway. So dark and still out here, he could imagine himself to be the only person left on Earth.

Batman frowned. It was a silly thought. In another half-hour he'd be home, pulling into the Batcave, then upstairs to greet Alfred, grab a little food, and head to bed. He was only returning from a visit to a neighboring town, after all, part of a relatively unimportant investigation.

Still, the inevitable boredom of a long, uneventful drive had set in. He had tried to narrow his thoughts to immediate concerns, how several criminals had recently managed to disappear from Gotham City, resurfacing halfway across the country. But his mind persisted in drifting in unwelcome directions.

And as always when he was caught in a quiet and thoughtful moment, he found himself wondering about Dick Grayson. It had been well over a year now that he had been gone. The usual unanswered questions paraded themselves through his mind... Where was Dick? Where had he gone after Kathy Kane's death and the argument that had ended their partnership and their friendship? How was he living, did he have a home, and enough money to survive? What was he doing right now?

In those first few dark weeks of despair, loneliness, and depression, Bruce had tracked down the Haly Circus where Dick had performed with his parents, figuring that was as close to a home and family as he had. Nothing, of course. Bruce had talked to the circus owner, watched the show, and returned empty-handed. Afterwards there had been a few reports of Nightwing being spotted here and there, and each time Bruce had been tempted to make another attempt to find him. But he had never tried again. After all, Dick was hardly likely to greet him with open arms. Not after Bruce had tried to force him to give up his crimefighting identity, questioned his abilities, and worst of all, hit him when the argument got out of control and they both said things that might never be forgiven.

No, that wasn't true, at least on his side. He had forgiven Dick long ago for his angry words. They were justified, in a way; Bruce had acted as cold and empty of feelings as Dick had accused him of being. He had never shown how he felt, to Kathy or anyone else...

Kathy. As always, he shied away from his memories of her. That loss was still too raw to face, even after more than a year. She had joined his parents in a back corner of his mind that held emotions too painful to be faced head on. In time, he had managed not to think about it, except for the dreams. Dreams of violence and death in a dark alley - but now sometimes he saw Kathy and Dick lying on bloodstained concrete instead of his mother and father.

His thoughts returned to the here and now with a jolt, as he saw a pair of approaching headlights he had only half noticed abruptly sweep off the edge of the road perhaps a hundred yards down the highway. He saw it happen as if in slow motion, a large van swerving sharply, wheels running into the ditch. It teetered for a moment, veered again, and crashed into the dark form of a large tree with the sound of tortured metal.

Instinctively Batman braked hard and pulled over. He was shoving the door open before coming to a complete stop, then running towards the wreck, pulling a compact flashlight from his belt. Not necessary, the van's headlights were still on, the reflected glare illuminating the cabin, and a man he could see crumpled inside through a spider-web of cracks in the windshield.

"You okay? Can you hear me?" he shouted. A glance at the body of the vehicle revealed no trace of fire. Swiftly Batman reached up for the door handle, found it unlocked and yanked it open.

"Damn," he muttered, ungloved fingers feeling in vain for a pulse. Nothing. No sign of breathing, either, and a large gash in the man's head where it had obviously hit the steering wheel. The front of the driver's cabin was crushed in. He might be able to get the man out from the tangle of steering wheel and seat and give CPR, but there was no point; it would take at least five or ten minutes and there was no way an ambulance could arrive in less than half an hour.

Back on the ground, he called 911 and then walked around the wreck. What had happened? Had the dead man fallen asleep? It wasn't uncommon on these overnight trucking runs. A tired driver, a dark night, the monotony of a long stretch of highway. All it took was a second of dozing off, and there would be no waking up.

_What was that?_ It came again, bringing him back to full alert. The sound of banging, something thumping against metal. There was someone alive in there. A relief driver, maybe, sleeping in the back. Batman ran to the back doors and pulled on them, only to find them locked. That didn't stop him for long, and in minutes he was picking his way through a jumble of broken shipping crates, trying to find the source of the knocking he could still hear, now accompanied by a faint voice calling.

It seemed to be coming from the front of the compartment. Batman dragged a couple more boxes out of the way, and clicked on his flashlight. Nothing here but a pile of crates, seemingly.

"Get me outta here!" the voice called again.

"Hold on. Don't move." He braced himself, got a hold on a large carton, and heaved it over. Then a smaller one - another - there was a space underneath, and a light suddenly brightening the compartment. Batman leaned over and found himself face to face with a young man, blood staining the side of his face, staring wildly back at him with the fear in his expression deepening into panic.

"Batman! No! You're not taking me back!" He reached into a pocket, his hand coming out waving a gun.

Batman ducked out of the way, saw the weapon emerge over the boxes, grabbed the man's arm and twisted. When the gun clattered to the floor, he pulled, hauling his attacker out over his loud protests.

In the light, the face was vaguely familiar. "I've seen you before, haven't I?" Batman muttered. "Probably on a wanted poster."

"Let me go!" The man struggled, but weakly. He sagged abruptly with a cry of pain. Probably injured in the crash, and then again in their brief fight. Served him right, no one had asked him to pull a gun on his rescuer.

"The first place you're going is a hospital." Batman quickly handcuffed him, then stood up to take a curious look inside the space he had been hiding in.

Hiding was the right word. Despite the chaos left by the crash, he could see the boxes and crates had been arranged to conceal a small 'room', set up to be inhabited, perhaps for as long as a few days. Food containers lay strewn about, and a small cot had fallen upside down. A battery-operated lamp still shown bright enough to see by.

Interesting. A smuggling operation, maybe? The smuggling of human beings. Like those criminals who had been spirited across state lines recently? Leaving his prisoner behind after checking him for more weapons, Batman went outside the truck again, this time taking note of the logo painted on the side, a large LSA, with the words 'Land-Sea-Air Transport' underneath.

Tomorrow night he'd have to pay Commissioner Gordon a call. He had a few questions about the LSA Company.

-

"I thought that might be what you came for." Gordon's face creased into a tired smile.

"Any idea yet why the driver went off the road?" Batman asked.

"No. He could have fallen asleep."

"Considering what he was carrying, he could also have recognized the Batmobile," Batman said grimly. "Maybe he was startled enough to lose control of the van."

"Well - I guess it's possible." Gordon eyed him. "The crash wasn't your fault."

Impatiently, Batman waved his concern away. "I know that. Don't like thinking this happened because of me, but... it was his own doing, either way."

"Right."

Back to the business he had come for. "I looked into LSA a little myself. They have new management, don't they? Took over not long before we noticed criminals being smuggled out of Gotham."

"Right. Did a background check on the new heads of the company." Gordon lifted a folder from one of the piles on his desk. Batman watched, and then pulled over a chair as he opened it and spread out several pieces of paper. "It's now being run by two men as a partnership. One of them, Lew Moxon, has a very interesting record. Started with armed robbery, then extortion and drug running."

"I remember him. I was in on breaking up his drug business."

"Right. He started out in Chicago. When you busted him, he was extradited back there to serve time."

"Why isn't he still in jail?"

"Cut a deal. He got out recently." Gordon held up a picture of a middle-aged, balding, heavy-featured man, a face Batman remembered only vaguely.

"And the other?"

"Joe Chill. Also a record, mostly small-time, a few robberies and a couple of assaults. He grew up in Gotham, but spent the last twenty years or so in Chicago. He's done time too. That's probably how he and Moxon met." Gordon slid over another picture. "The two of them must have decided to go into business together. We've already questioned them about the guy you found in that van. He's 'Feets' Borgam, wanted for a convenience story robbery. Shot the clerk, so there was a lot of heat on him. Anyway, Moxon and Chill claim they didn't know anything about it, that the driver must have done it on his own. Very convenient, since he's dead. Borgam either doesn't know anything or isn't talking." He paused. "What's the matter?"

Batman had picked up the picture of Joe Chill and was staring at it, fingers starting to tremble on the paper, hardly aware of what was being said to him. That face... it had been a long time, over twenty years, but it was the same, older, but the same... The face he had last seen above the cold glint of light off a pistol. The face he had last seen on the night his parents had died.

"Batman? Is something wrong?"

"What...? No." With an effort, he raised his eyes to Gordon's. "Do you mind if I keep this picture? Can I borrow the whole file?"

"Sure, if you want." Gordon looked puzzled, but he said nothing as Batman shoved the papers back into the folder and took it. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to do some more checking of my own. Prove Chill and Moxon are running an illegal operation. Put them away." He was heading for the window as he spoke. If Gordon said goodbye, he didn't hear.

-

The drive home passed in a blur. Bruce paused barely long enough to remove his cowl and gloves before taking the folder to the computer desk and turning on the light. He sat to look at it. It had been such a long time. He had been only ten years old. Could he really be sure? Eyewitness identification was notoriously unreliable. He himself would be the first to dismiss something like this, an ID after so much time, by a victim who had been a child at the time, of a perpetrator who was now much older. Slowly, he took the photo out.

Yes, it hadn't been his imagination. It was the same face, staring up at him, it had to be. He examined every feature, trying to see them the way they would have looked twenty years ago. The way they had looked that night in the shadows of a darkened alley, to a young boy walking with his parents...

_"I'll take that necklace you're wearin', lady." _

"Don't you dare put a hand on my wife!"

"Thomas! No!"

"Shut up! Shut up!"

Two gunshots seemed to echo for a moment in the still of the Batcave. Bruce closed his eyes, but resolutely opened them again a moment later. He had to know for sure. Had to prove it, at least to himself. And then what? No way to prove it legally, unless Chill still had some kind of evidence in his possession. Not much chance of that; the first thing he would have done after murdering a prominent doctor and his wife was to get rid of the gun. Still, over the years he might have talked about it. A second-hand confession wasn't much, but it might be all he'd ever have.

The fugitive-smuggling case was a good start. If he could get Chill on that, prove his involvement... The van driver had died in the commission of a crime, maybe the DA could bring a charge of homicide... Then Bruce Wayne could step forward, saying he had recognized the man who had killed his parents... Probably wouldn't stick, but it was worth a try.

The faint creak of a door behind and above him was followed by familiar footsteps coming down the stairs from the house. Bruce didn't have to look to know Alfred had entered the cave, and was crossing the space to stand by the desk, undoubtedly with a tray of sandwiches or some other form of a late dinner balanced on one hand. The sound of his butler clearing his throat, accompanied by the smell of fresh coffee, prompted him to glance up.

"Your supper, sir."

"Thanks. Just put it down." Bruce returned his attention to the sheets of background information on Chill, Moxon, and the Land-Sea-Air Shipping Company.

With a barely audible sigh, Alfred complied, and continued to stand over him, watching. "You should eat before it gets cold," he said finally.

"Sandwiches don't get cold."

"Coffee does."

Bruce reached for the cup, sipped, and then picked up a sandwich and took a bite, not even tasting it. As he leaned back, reading, Alfred peered at the photographs, moving them side by side with a finger.

"Unsavory-looking characters," he commented. "Are they connected with the crash you witnessed last night?"

"Yes."

"I heard about it on the news today. They identified the man hidden inside."

"I know."

"An operation to smuggle criminals across state lines. Interesting. How are you planning to handle it?"

Bruce bit back an impatient sigh and answered, "Go under cover. Try to get a job for the LSA company, look around, then take it from there."

"Ah. Will you be disguised as Mr. Malone, or will this be a new identity?"

"Matches is pretty well known; they might be willing to trust him. On the other hand, he's considered a lightweight. A new identity might be better."

"A gangster from out of town perhaps."

"Perhaps."

"And if you don't succeed at first, you can always assume a new identity and try again."

"I suppose."

Alfred was quiet for a few seconds. Bruce could almost see the expression of puzzled disappointment he was probably wearing. He loved discussing Batman's cases. It had been these late night 'business' conversations that had eventually reduced the coldness and distance that had opened between them after Dick had left, an event Alfred still blamed him for. And with good reason. But this case was different; it wasn't something he could discuss casually. It wasn't something he wanted to share with anyone.

"Will you be coming upstairs soon?"

With the implied question of whether he was planning to go to bed anytime soon. Bruce suppressed another sigh of irritation and said, "I'll be up later. You go on to bed, I won't need anything more tonight."

"Master Bruce, you had a late night yesterday. You need your sleep."

_What I don't need is someone who likes to play amateur detective standing over me when I'm trying to work!_ Bruce kept his face calm with an effort as he glanced up again. "I can take care of myself, thank you, Alfred," he said. "Goodnight."

The butler had been dismissed, and he knew it. His voice slightly stiff, Alfred said, "Goodnight, sir," and marched back to the stairs. Bruce had forgotten about him before he got to the top.

-

"I'm here lookin' for a job."

The secretary, a hard-faced woman with dyed blonde hair who looked as if she had seen much better times, frowned at him as she looked him over. "Are you the one who called yesterday?" she demanded.

"Yeah."

She reached for a phone. "What's your name again?"

"Malone. But you can call me Matches."

After another suspicious look, she turned her back and spoke into the phone too softly to be heard over the background of voices and engine noises coming from outside the small office. She listened, talked again, then hung up. When she turned around, her expression was even more sour. "Wait a minute and he'll see you," she said with a nod at a couple of chair against the wall.

As she ignored him, Bruce took another look around the room. It was probably typical of any small trucking business: small, without luxury, smelling faintly of gasoline fumes. A filing cabinet stood in the corner, a computer was on the secretary's desk. He'd have to find an opportunity to get into both of those. After he talked to Joe Chill.

A heavyset, middle-aged man opened the front door, gave Bruce a hard stare, and walked inside. Lew Moxon, instantly recognizable from the picture in Gordon's file. "Any messages?" he asked as he paused by the secretary's desk.

"Nope."

"Who's that?"

"Some guy wants to apply for a job."

Moxon gave him another unfriendly glare before disappearing through another door leading inside the building.

"Who was that?" Bruce asked.

"That was the other boss. Joey - Mr. Chill - does the hiring. Mr. Moxon brings in the business."

"Seems like a nice guy."

There was no answer, although the corners of her mouth twitched slightly. Bruce was wondering whether to try his luck at questioning her when the same inner door opened. A man stood in it. He was in his early forties, according to the file, but looked older. His hair was graying, face bony and pinched, shoulders hunched; just under six feet and on the thin side.

"Matches Malone? Heard your name around. Come on in."

His voice was calm and quiet, a little hoarse. But it seemed to echo inside Bruce's head as the innocent words he had spoken changed into the ones he still heard in his dreams. _'I'll take that necklace you're wearin', lady...'_ He stood up, a little shakily, and followed Joe Chill through the door and down a short hallway, grateful that no one could see his face at that moment. By the time they reached a door opening into a small office he had himself reasonably under control, although his heart was still pounding, so loudly he almost wasn't aware of the phone ringing.

"Excuse me a second." Chill picked it up.

Bruce knew he should be listening to every word, but they went past without registering. He was in the same room with the man who had killed his parents, he was absolutely sure of it. And yet, it was hard to believe this completely ordinary-looking man was the terrifying monster of his childhood, the same face that haunted his nightmares. For a moment he wished vaguely that Chill had been large and threatening, ugly and distorted, wished he was drawing a gun instead of hanging up the phone and smiling at him.

"Sorry about that. You told Sylvia you want to work here?"

"That's right."

"Why?"

Bruce shrugged. "I need a job. Heard you're short a driver."

Chill frowned slightly. "Yeah. We lost a good man. But we're short a truck now, too. Don't really need a new driver yet."

"I'm a pretty good mechanic, too. I can do repair work. Or whatever else you need done."

"You have a license to drive a truck?"

"Yeah, sure."

Chill stared at him thoughtfully. "I made a few calls when Sylvia gave me your name. Heard some good things."

Bruce smiled. "Nice to know I got a few friends."

"They said you're an okay guy. Don't drink too much. Know how to keep your mouth shut."

"That's me. I believe in doing my job, minding my own business, and not looking for trouble."

"Well, we got other trucks that need some work. And we'll need a driver soon. I could give you a chance for a couple days, I guess. See how you do on repairs. After that, we'll see."

"Thanks a lot, Mr. Chill. You won't be sorry."

"I hope not. And call me Joey."

Chill stood up and put out his hand. Bruce smiled and took it, trying not to show a reaction as his skin seemed to crawl at the contact. "When can I start?" he asked.

"Right now, if you want. Come on, I'll show you around."

A quick walk back through the reception area and around to the back of the building took them to the loading bays. Chill waved a hand at the line of trucks and vans, some empty, some full, some with a few men loading or unloading boxes and crates. "This is mainly where you'll be working," he said. Bruce followed as he led the way onto the docks, and interrupted a few men for introductions. Some smiled and shook his hand; some gave him only a nod and a glance. There were a few faces and names he recognized, small-time crooks mostly. No one who was currently wanted by the law. He might look into parole violations; maybe some of them weren't supposed to be associating with ex-cons, but it was a stretch.

"This is Benny," Chill was saying. "He'll get you started. Benny, Matches. He'll help you out, and be sure to let me know how he does."

A man who looked about thirty, with untidy blond hair and a streak of greasy dirt on his face, hastily wiped his hands on an equally dirty-looking rag and stuck one out. "Nice to meet you," he said with a smile. "I could use an extra hand."

"Thanks again, Mr. Chill," Bruce said as the older man started to turn away.

"It's Joey, remember? And I can always use a good man. If this works out, you'll be doing me a favor."

"I hope so."

"He's a great guy, isn't he?" Benny enthused. "Gave me a break when I was down on my luck."

"Yeah? You mean he gave you this job?"

"Right. I'd been in the can for a year. Small-time stuff, paid my debt to society and shit, wanted to go straight, but a lot of places won't hire anyone who's got a record. Joey isn't like that; he likes to give ex-cons a chance, I guess since he's been in trouble too. If he hadn't taken me on, don't know where I'd be now."

"Lucky for you, then." Privately Bruce wondered how much of Chill's attitude was sympathy for reformed crooks and how much was the desire for employees who were likely to join in on new illegal activities.

"C'mon, I'll show you Mayflower. That's the rig I'm working on now. I give 'em all names, kinda makes things more personal, know what I mean? She's got a cracked engine block, I'll show you..."

Bruce nodded, only half listening as he gave another glance to the man walking away from them. A great guy. Right, a great guy who had shot down two innocent people over twenty years ago and was now helping other criminals escape the law. Maybe Joe Chill had gone legit, on the surface. Maybe he thought he'd left the past behind. But it was about to catch up with him.

-

**_- Two weeks later, LSA Company -_**

Bruce looked up at the clock on the loading bay wall, feeling oil smear on his forehead as he wiped at the sweat. Two weeks at this job, punching a time clock, doing what he was told, trying to fit in. It occurred to him that this was the way many people spent most of their lives, but it was a new experience for him.

The case was taking longer than he had thought, and he still had no proof of the illegal activities he knew must be going on. There had been the occasional light on in the back offices late at night, and a few unpleasant-looking characters coming and going way outside business hours, but so far nothing like proof. He had hidden bugs in Chill's and Moxon's offices, and spent hours listening in on routine business discussions. Nothing, hardly even a hint of anything illicit going on. Maybe they were lying low, now that they knew they were under suspicion.

"Can't wait for quitting time, huh?"

Bruce put a smile on his face before turning to look at Benny, who was bent over the engine of one of the trucks. "Yeah. Been a long day."

"Damn straight. Still can't get this baby sounding right, and we need her back in action by tomorrow. I've got a few more things to check out..."

"I'm done here. Let me take a look." Bruce turned away from the transmission he was working on and stuck his head in where Benny's had been, peering at the workings of their latest project. It was unlikely that he'd spot anything Benny hadn't. Fortunately, his cover story only required that he have a basic knowledge of truck repair. That, and a strong back, were all Benny really needed to help him out. He had been offered and accepted the job as an assistant mechanic on a permanent basis, and was glad of it, since it gave him the opportunity to stay at the Gotham LSA headquarters, to keep an eye on Chill, and to inspect the trucks without attracting suspicion.

The drivers weren't around enough for him to make much progress in finding out what they knew, but he'd made friends with Benny. Not that it had done him much good; the cheerful mechanic either didn't know anything or was very good at hiding it.

"I dunno. Don't see anything," he said.

"Yeah. Gonna have to get under her and take a better look. Gotta be something, you know?"

"Right, gotta be something." Bruce stepped back, wiping grease from his hands with a rag. "Hear anything about the new rig that's supposed to be coming in?" he asked.

"Nah. Still on order, I think," Benny replied, his voice muffled as he returned to his inspection of the depths under the hood.

"That's the replacement for the one that crashed, isn't it?"

"Yeah, right."

"Did you ever work on it? See anything unusual about it?"

"Like what?"

"Well... there was that guy inside it. Did you ever see him around here?"

"The guy hiding in it?" Fortunately, Benny seemed to accept the question as normal curiosity. "Nah. Nobody here knew about that."

"Someone here must have let him into that truck."

"If they did, I never heard about it. Musta been the driver. He was a quiet guy. Never talked much to me."

"Why do you think it crashed?"

"Man, wish I knew." Benny's face was troubled. "These guys are out in the middle of the night, they get tired sometimes. Couldn't have been the truck, it was running perfect. I checked it out the day before."

"You're right, maybe the driver fell asleep."

"Yeah, guess so. Poor guy."

Bruce heard heavy footsteps approaching from behind, recognizable to him even in the noise of activity around them. He was careful to keep his expression friendly as he turned his head.

"Don't you guys ever quit?" Joe Chill asked with a smile. "The day's over."

"Just wanna get this engine going..." Benny muttered from under the hood.

"You can do it tomorrow. Go on and get washed up."

"Whatever you say, boss." Reluctantly, Benny put his tools down. "See ya tomorrow," he added as he started for the back of the bay and the showers and locker rooms.

"Hey Matches, wait up a second," Chill said as Bruce began to follow.

"Yeah? Did I do something?"

"No. I mean yeah." Chill smiled. "You're doing a great job around here. Benny says you're a big help. Just want to let you know that you've got a real future here, if you keep it up."

"Thanks." Bruce hesitated just for an instant as Chill put his hand out. It was bad enough to have to be in the same room with the man who had murdered his parents, but to have to smile, and make conversation, and take his hand... Fighting back the revulsion that he always felt, he shook Chill's hand firmly. "Thanks a lot," he added. Then, to his relief, Chill turned away and started towards another group of men, leaving him free to continue into the locker rooms. He nodded to a couple of the drivers, and began to clean up.

There was no way Benny knew anything about what was going on. He had shown no trace of suspicion at the questions, no sign that he was reluctant to answer. No one was that good an actor. And there was no real reason for him to know; probably only Chill, Moxon, and a few of the drivers were in on it.

Chill, on the other hand... Why had he been so eager for them to knock off work and leave? Was it only the concern a good boss would feel for his employees? Bruce frowned at the thought. There was no way he could believe a man like Chill would be concerned for anyone else but himself. The man was nothing but a cold-blooded murderer, a monster, despite the friendly exterior. Despite the way he always acted. Despite Benny, who was grateful for the opportunities Chill had given him. He couldn't have changed so much... could he? No, he was still a crook. Still a thief. Still a killer. But how to prove it?

This was getting him nowhere, Bruce decided. Time to try something different.

-

Tonight, he would be Monty Dixon, better known as 'Aces', a bookie from the south side who had leaned a little too hard on his clients and was now wanted for assault and conspiracy to commit murder. The real Monty, who fortunately was close to his own height and weight, had been arrested that morning. Bruce had waited, impatiently, for a week now for an opportunity like this.

He checked his appearance one more time with a critical eye, leaning closer to the mirror, and saw the reflection of movement behind him. Alfred, moving silently around the Batcave, stopping to pick up the plate holding Bruce's half-finished dinner. There was a barely audible sigh of disapproval, a glance, but he said nothing.

Bruce stood up and reached for his jacket. "Don't wait up, Alfred," he said.

"Very well, sir."

It occurred to Bruce that normally Alfred would have wanted to know where he was going, what he was doing, when he would be back. Not tonight. It seemed they rarely had much to say to each other lately, ever since this case had started. He had hardly noticed before. And it didn't matter. The only important thing was the case. Joe Chill was all that mattered.

-

"Hello? Anybody here?"

He hadn't said it very loudly, but that was in character for a criminal on the run. More important, he didn't want to attract attention until he knew who was here, and what they were doing. Bruce raised a hand to straighten the collar of the jacket he was wearing, and to smooth the hair of his wig. He resisted the urge to touch the makeup; the less fiddling with it, the better.

It was early evening, after dark, Benny and the other employees gone for the day. But the lights in the back offices were on. Chill and Moxon were still here. He had business with them, but first - after making quick work of the front door lock, he was in the company's reception area, the same place where he had first seen Joe Chill. Maybe a quick look in the filing cabinet first...

Voices. They were approaching. Bruce moved away from the cabinet and quickly stepped out through the front door. By pressing an ear against it, he could still hear them - and for once their conversation was worth listening to.

"We're ready to go again, Joe. I got someone lined up already."

"I don't like it. We should wait a while longer."

"Look, we need the extra cash. I'm not going to wait forever. And you're the one who said you like to help the guys out."

"I dunno. With Batman involved..."

"No reason to think he's interested. You worry too much."

"My worrying is what's kept us out of trouble so far. Maybe we should just knock it off for good." Chill's voice had gotten louder. He was coming out. Quickly, Bruce moved back a step, and rapped on the door. It opened almost instantly.

"Who the hell are you?" Chill confronted him, his face hard and suspicious, a hand in his pocket. Bruce could see the glint of light on metal.

"I'm looking for Lew Moxon or Joe Chill."

"Yeah? What for?"

"Thought they could help me out. I can pay."

"It's past business hours."

"Not the kind of business I need. Can I come in at least? Don't want the cops seeing me hanging around."

Chill stood aside to let him enter, and looked him over again. "Where'd you hear about us?"

"From Feets. Said you helped him with transportation."

"Feets, huh? Lot of good it did him." Moxon, standing near the desk, glared at Bruce distrustfully.

"He said you could get me a ticket out of town."

"I was just about to tell him we don't do that kind of thing," Chill said.

"Not so fast." Moxon examined Bruce. "You a cop?" he asked.

"No," Bruce answered truthfully.

"If this is a setup..."

"Hey, all I want is a ride. What's wrong with that? And I got money." Slowly, Bruce reached in his own pocket, showed them his wallet, and pulled out a wad of cash. Moxon's eyes narrowed greedily. He almost had them...

"I don't like it," Chill said. "We don't know this guy."

"Name's Monty Dixon," Bruce offered. "Ask around. Ask anyone. They'll tell you I'm on the level."

"Monty Dixon?" Moxon's eyes were narrowing again, this time with hostility. "I just heard that name on the news. Monty Dixon got busted this morning."

"He's a fake!" Chill's hand came out, holding a gun. "Who are you?" he snarled.

Bruce acted instantly and instinctively, jumping into a spin kick and hitting his gun arm. The weapon went flying, but Moxon was trying to pull something out of his own jacket. Bruce leaped between them as they both stepped back, and shoved them in opposite directions. He lunged past, hit the door, and plunged through. Then he was out in the night, darkness hiding him, a bullet whining uncomfortably close as he ran for the nearest building. A moment later he was on a low roof, watching them search for a few minutes and then give up.

-

_Damn, damn, damn._ All that planning, all that effort, and nothing had worked. As Matches, he hadn't been able to get to the right people, or they hadn't been willing to talk. And tonight had been a complete disaster. Now they'd be more suspicious than ever. Not much chance of posing as a 'customer' for their smuggling services now, not without waiting a very long time.

What could he do? Go back to work in the morning as Matches, act like nothing had happened, make small talk with Benny and shake Joe Chill's slimy hand? No. Batman knew he simply wasn't capable of continuing that masquerade any longer, not without any real hope of doing anything useful soon. He needed to end this. Needed to do something. To let out the anger that boiled inside him, to relieve the pressure of frustration.

There was always one thing he could do. Maybe he couldn't prove anything in a court of law. Maybe he couldn't put Chill in jail, or on death row. But he could make Chill's life a living hell.

A light was still on in the small office. Joe Chill sat at his desk, alone, the phone clutched in his hand. Batman eased the window open slowly. Chill's voice rose, covering the sound, and he was intent on his conversation. He hung up only a moment before Batman's feet hit the floor.

"Don't even try going for the gun," he said as Chill spun around in his chair.

"_Batman?_ What - what do you want?"

"Just a conversation."

"That guy who was here..."

"Yes, that was me. I'm after you, Chill. I won't rest until your dirty little operation here is shut down, and you're rotting in a jail cell."

"What - what operation?" Chill's face was starting to sweat, but he stared up defiantly.

"I'm watching you, Chill." Batman leaned over him. "Remember that. Whatever you do, wherever you go, I'll be there. You won't see me, but I'll see you. I'll always be watching. And someday you'll make a mistake, and I'll be waiting." He brought up a hand, fingers curled into a fist.

"Why?" Chill was starting to tremble now. "Why me? You got bigger guys than me all over Gotham!"

"But I want _you_."

"Because we help a few guys get away from the cops? Sure, I done a few favors... I been in jail myself, like to help guys who've been there, or might go there. But it's all small-time stuff! We'll stop it, I swear..."

"Won't make any difference."

Chill shot to his feet as Batman stepped back. "What do you want me to do? Shut down the company? All the guys who work here, all of them would be out of a job..."

"I don't care about that."

"Then _why_? I'm just another nothing punk, to you. Why are you after me?"

Batman smiled, letting his voice lower into silky menace. "But you're not nothing to me, Chill. You're real big-time."

"For what? Sneaking a few crooks out of the state? A couple of robberies, years ago? I never done anything to make _you_ be after me!"

Did he honestly believe that? Had Chill forgotten that night, so long ago, forgotten the two people he had gunned down in cold blood, and the little boy who had watched? Batman stared at the pale, sweaty face in front of him, but what he saw...

_A man stepped from the shadows, light glinting from the cold metal of the gun in his hand. "I'll take that necklace you're wearin', lady," he said. As the three of them stood in stunned shock and fear, he reached for it. _

"Don't you dare put a hand on my wife!"

"Thomas! No!" Her cry was drowned out by the roar of a gunshot, as Bruce's father lunged at the mugger, then staggered back and fell. She screamed again, and again, staring down at her husband as a pool of blood began to form.

"Shut up! Shut up!" The flash and sound of death again, so bright, so loud, and the screams stopped.

The man just stood, staring. His eyes rose to Bruce's. "Stop lookin' at me like that!" he shouted...

"You want to know why? All right. Let me tell you a story. Stop me when it sounds familiar." Batman stepped closer again, forcing Chill to sit down. "It was just about twenty-three years ago, right here in Gotham. Dr. Thomas Wayne, his wife Martha, and their son, Bruce, were walking back to their car after a movie. They took a shortcut through an alley. But someone was waiting for them there..."

Chill's face had paled to the shade of the papers on his desk. Batman went on. "A mugger. He had a gun. He tried to take Mrs. Wayne's necklace. When her husband intervened, the mugger shot him. When she wouldn't stop screaming, he shot her too. Then he ran away, but not before Bruce Wayne had gotten a good look at his face."

"No..." It was only a whimper.

"Yes. _You_ were that killer. Bruce Wayne can identify you. Admit it... at least to me."

Chill swallowed, his eyes wide and fixed on Batman's. "You're bluffing," he finally said. "You got no proof. No jury would believe an identification after all these years. Not by someone who was just a kid at the time."

"But you did it." Batman leaned over him, hands braced on the arms of the chair, bringing their faces closer.

"I... I was only eighteen!" Chill's face abruptly crumpled. "I was high! Didn't know what I was doing! Needed the money! I never meant to hurt anyone, I swear!"

"You killed two good, decent people!"

"It was a long time ago! Can't you just leave me alone? Why should you care about it so much anyway, what's it got to do with you?"

"I care..." Batman's hands moved up to his head without any conscious thought on his part. They peeled the cowl from his face, and lifted it off. "I care because those people you murdered were my parents! _I am Bruce Wayne!_"

Chill was frozen in place, his eyes glassy with terror. Bruce took a step back. "I became Batman because of what you did, and I swore I'd get you for it someday. Maybe you're right; I can't prove anything, but I'll never stop trying. I won't leave you alone until you're in jail. Or dead."

The window was at his back. Chill sat, unmoving, hardly breathing. Trying to keep his own hands from shaking, Bruce tugged his mask back into place and was out in a swift movement.

-

Why had he done such a stupid thing? It could mean the end of his career. Emotion, his own anger and frustration, his need to make Chill afraid, to see him suffer. And now... what? Chill might tell anyone. Everyone. On the other hand, telling would mean admitting he had committed a double murder years ago.

Besides, this was the reason Batman existed. It all came down to Joe Chill. Getting him was the most important thing in his life, worth the sacrifice of his identity. It was what he had sworn to do, on his parents' graves...

_"I swear I'll dedicate my life to bringing your killer to justice... and to fighting all criminals." He felt something trickling down his cheek, and wiped the tears away. He would have no more time for tears, nothing left for anything else. There would be no love, no pain, no fear, no pity, nothing to distract him. "I'll make my heart as cold and hard as a stone... so nothing can stop me... and nothing can hurt me ever again... I swear..."_

No point in staying here. Quickly Batman slid off the roof and returned to his car. Then he hesitated, watching the building. A light was still on in the back. Moxon's office. Was Chill in there right now? What was he doing? Was he telling Moxon? Had to know... The receiver for the bugs he had planted in the two offices was here, in the car. Only a minute later he was listening to the sound of Chill's voice, still shaking with fear.

_"I'm telling you, you gotta help me, Lew! I gotta get out of town right now! Tonight!" _

"Will you calm down and tell me what happened?"

"It was Batman! He was here!"

"Damn! That musta been him pretending to be Dixon!"

"Yeah, it was." Chill's tones faltered. _"He's after me, Lew. I gotta get out of Gotham. Maybe out of the country." _

"I guess you were right. We'll have to lay low for a while. But he's got other things to worry about; he'll forget about us soon. No reason to leave town."

"You don't understand!" Chill took a deep, gasping breath. _"He's not after **us**. He's after **me**. He hates me, Lew, he won't stop! Ever! Until he gets me!" _

"Why? Why would he care about someone like you?"

"Years ago... years ago I did something terrible... I held up this couple and their kid. The guy jumped me, and - and I shot him. Then the woman was screaming, and she wouldn't stop, and I was scared, and I shot her too. Killed both of them." There was a shuddering sigh. _"I ran away. Left Gotham. Tried to forget about it. Never told anyone. But - but Batman knows. He knows because - because he was that kid!" _

"What?"

"Yeah! I killed Batman's parents! I'm the reason he became Batman in the first place! He just told me!"

"You're the reason for Batman? For the guy who broke up my drug operation? Who put me in jail?" Moxon's voice vibrated with sudden fury. _"My wife left me when I got arrested... took the kids, won't let me see them... and it was because of **you**?" _

"Yeah! Yeah! Lew, you gotta help me disappear where he'll never find me..."

"You're gonna disappear, all right."

"What are you doing?"

"I'm not letting you bring Batman down on me again! Not letting him ruin my life again because of you! Maybe with you gone, he'll leave me alone!"

Batman threw down the headset and pushed the car door open, knowing it was already too late as the sound of a gunshot rang through the night air. He ran. Moxon's window, it was this one - closed, but he had used it before to get into the office, knew the lock was broken. He grabbed the sash and thrust it up, hearing Moxon's voice as it opened.

"Joe! Who is he? Who is Batman? Tell me!"

Then he was through, hitting the floor in a roll and coming up with a batarang in his hand. He threw it as Moxon turned, before he could aim. It deflected the gun, and then he was on the big man, his fist striking with a shock he could feel all the way up his arm. But Moxon was surprisingly tough, he didn't fall; he pushed Batman back and turned to run.

Batman reached to grab his arm, yanked him back, and chopped him on the neck. While Moxon was reeling from that, he turned him around and hit him again, and again, and finally let him fall limply.

A gasp from the floor caught his attention. Batman took the few steps between himself and Joe Chill, and looked down. He looked like he was dying... and from his expression, he knew it. A bloody hand reached up, wavering. Reluctantly, Batman knelt over him.

"I guess you got me, after all." Surprisingly, Chill's face had calmed, his voice was steady.

"Looks like it. This wasn't the way I wanted it, though."

"I wouldn't have told him who you are..." His hand reached again, tugging weakly at Batman's cape. "I'm sorry. I've regretted what I did every day for twenty-three years. Please... please, forgive me."

"Forgive you...?" Shaken, Batman stared down, watching as Chill's face slackened, as his eyes glazed, as his breath stopped.

_No pity. And no forgiveness._ Batman pulled the dead hand away and stood up. Dead - Chill was dead. It was over. At last. He stared down, feeling - he didn't know what he felt, just a cold numbness. Pausing only long enough to handcuff Moxon and call the police, he escaped as quickly as he could.

-

_Cold and hard as a stone._

He stood in the same spot where he had first spoken those words to himself. The breeze ruffled his hair and sighed in the branches of the trees surrounding him, but all he was aware of was the two headstones before him.

Thomas Wayne.

Martha Wayne.

Loving husband and father. Loving wife and mother.

"Mom, Dad, I did it. I got him. I kept my promise." It was only a whisper, but he hoped in some way they could hear it.

He had kept his promise. But what was the price? He had done a great deal of good in the world, he knew that, but he had also hurt people. Important people, the ones he should have cared about most of all.

Kathy. He really had loved her, but hadn't admitted it or even realized it until it was too late. If only he had told her the truth all along, at least she would have had his honesty. There were so many things he should have told her, so many things he wished he had said. Death left no time for goodbyes, only emptiness and regret for what should have been.

Dick. Accusing and untrue words, spoken in the name of protecting him, of persuading him to give up his Nightwing career by playing on his guilt and insecurity. It had backfired, and led only to anger and violence. Now Dick was gone, continuing as Nightwing on his own, worse off than when they had met. He had every reason to remember their partnership, and Bruce, with nothing but resentment.

Bruce sighed. Nothing he could do about Kathy; that book was closed forever. As for Dick... not much chance there either, even if he ever found him, not after hard words and harder blows.

There were others. Selina and Alfred. At least he had the chance to try with them... but how would they react? Selina must despise him for the way he had led her on and betrayed her, even if he had thought he was trying to help. Only blind luck that she had decided to reform, apparently sincerely. And Alfred; Bruce could see now the way he had shut his faithful butler and friend out of one of the most important episodes in his life. Could either of them forgive the way he had treated them?

_'Forgive me...'_ Bruce shivered at the memory of Joe Chill's last words. No, he couldn't quite go that far, didn't think he could ever find forgiveness for the man who had taken his parents and destroyed his life. But just for one instant he had wanted to; he had been close enough to it that the idea of giving up all that hatred and anger was almost frightening.

But it had made him think, if nothing else. If Joe Chill could ask for forgiveness, maybe, someday, he could too.

- End -


End file.
